The old texts had led you here.
For years, you had studied the myths, the scattered accounts, the fragments of history that most dismissed as legend. Every document, every whispered story, every forbidden manuscript pointed to one conclusion: Dracula was real. And if the records were true, then his presence—his essence—still lingered in the world, hidden in the shadows of time.

That was why you found yourself standing at the gates of Castlevania. The castle loomed before you, a skeletal silhouette against the storm-heavy sky. Towers clawed at the heavens, their shapes twisting in the mist. The iron gates, rusted but unbroken, stood ajar—as if they had been expecting you. No torches burned to welcome visitors, yet the moment you stepped forward, you felt it. A presence. Watching. Waiting.

The castle is not abandoned.
The air is thick with the scent of old parchment, melted wax, and something richer, darker—the faintest trace of blood. Candles burn, though you see no hands that have lit them. The hallways stretch impossibly far, doors shifting in the corners of your vision. The architecture defies logic, twisting as if it were alive.

And then—

"You are either very bold… or very foolish."

He stands at the far end of the chamber, half-hidden in the shadows. Tall. Regal. His presence fills the space, as if the very castle breathes around him. Long dark hair, eyes like burning embers, and an expression that is neither welcoming nor hostile—just watching. Measuring.

Dracula.